


The Final Problem - What It Could Have Been

by Erwael



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fixing S4, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Protective John Watson, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2020-12-09 08:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erwael/pseuds/Erwael
Summary: The title sums it all! Sherlock and John discovered the existence of Eurus. As they are in greater danger than ever, all barriers fall, and all secrets are uncovered, included the one they have kept for a very long time... In this adventure, the greatest threat they'll have to face could be themselves.Short chapters.





	1. Do you intend to torture my brother?

Fact number one: he had a sister. Fact number two: Mycroft knew, and he had locked her up for years. Fact number three: she was out, and she shot John?

Sherlock sighed, fingers on his temples. John had been sitting on the armchair facing his own, an angry look painted on his face. He was rubbing the back of his head, where his skull had hit the floor. Sherlock gave him an almost-worried look. Wasn't this too much for him? Mary's death, himself drugged and almost getting killed, and now a woman claiming to be Mycroft's and his own sister had just shot him…

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

He blinked and turned back to John, barely trying to hide his growing smile. John. Tender, caring, sweet John. Who had just been assaulted, but who was still worrying about him. Because John always worried about him. He nodded, his eyes grounded in the doctor's. He could see, behind his soft tone, a raging and boiling anger, at his tensed jawbone, his hands and neck's contracted muscles. John Watson was really, really pissed off.

"Mycroft isn't going to tell me the truth so easily, the detective thought out loud."

"Do you think so?"

John looked like a cat who had found a canary, with a disturbing gleam in his eyes.

"There is a way to make him talk: scare him until he does."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Do you intend to torture my brother?"

The doctor chuckled. Sherlock locked this delicious sound up into a drawer in the room reserved to John in his Mind Palace.

"No, I just want to give him a good scare, giving him what he has done to you all this time… I'm pretty sure you know what terrifies him… Aside from your sister obviously."

Sherlock closed his eyes, rummaging through all the things about his brother that he gathered through the years.

"There actually is that clown thing…"

John's predatory smile made Sherlock want to kiss him, and he promptly shoved the thought away. Well too disturbing, well too out of place, as it always had been. John might have been attracted to him, a long time ago – _so you're unattached, like me – dinner? - __neither of us were the first_ – he shook his head. Not now, Mary. It was all before you, before Rosie. He closed his eyes. He preferred taking refuge in his Mind Palace, as he had always done, than be confronted to John's overly expressive eyes.

A few days later, while they were hidden in the shadows watching a properly terrified Mycroft confess Eurus' existence, Sherlock couldn't prevent himself from thinking John was sometimes way more than a conductor of light. Sometimes, he provided it. He noted that fact on a post-it in John's room, next to the wedding speech he had written for the Watsons. Too bad he hadn't considered that earlier.


	2. Looking Into Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk with Mycroft. It's a family matter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Second chapter is here, I hope you'll like it. Thank you for the kudos!

"This is a private matter."

"John stays."

"This is family."

"That's WHY he stays!"

Sherlock's sudden outburst pushed Mycroft back in his chair. Sherlock grit his teeth in anger. Of course John was family. He was the only one he'd had for a long time. Him, Rosie, Mrs Hudson. He couldn't express it, he never had been able to. But John's little smirk, while he was looking down at his notebook, told him that maybe he should have tried harder. Because it was a beautiful thing to see. He didn't think he had seen such a tiny yet happy smile since the wedding, with everything that had followed…

Maybe he'd done better not to think about that now.

John, on the other hand, was trying to conceal the smile he couldn't contain. He was family. Sherlock's family. Of course, Sherlock had already had beautiful and expressive words towards him – _you, it's always you – __the two people who love you the most in all this world – who love you – __Anytime_ – but it was different. He was getting married. Sherlock had just come back from the dead. He shook himself internally. Mycroft had to talk. So John tried to ignore the warmth that was invading him slowly like a hot tea on a rainy day, to listen to the man, and shut up the _need_ that was filling up his veins.

"So there were three Holmes kids. What was the age gap?"

"Seven years between myself and Sherlock. One between Sherlock and Eurus."

Mycroft looked so annoyed it was almost amusing. It could have been, at least, if the subject was not so grave.

"Middle child. Explains a lot!"

Sherlock's look made him chuckle.

"Did she have it too?"

"Have what?"

Mycroft playing dumb was something he had often seen, but never disliked more.

"The deduction thing."

"The deduction thing?"

Sherlock grit his teeth again. He hated when Mycroft mocked John like that. Of course, he knew he did that too, but when he did, John knew he didn't _really_ mean it. Or at least, he hoped so.

"Yes."

"If only you knew."

"Enlighten me."

"I'm the smart brother."

"So you say."

It was Sherlock's turn to mock his brother. John tended to think that Mycroft was not as smart as he wanted everyone to believe. He lacked something very important: an understanding of emotions and sentiments. And, as much as Sherlock liked to define himself as a sociopath, his doctor knew, and he firmly believed that Sherlock knew too, that he was not at all one. He was a genius, yes, but not a sociopath. He had emotions –_ there's something I've always wanted to say but never have – you keep me right – I'm afraid John – body's betraying me_ – of course he did, he always had – _I killed his wife_.

It was just sad that he had never noticed it before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for today! Next chapter wil be arriving soon.
> 
> Leaving a comment always makes the author happy!
> 
> I know the dialogues haven't been changed yet, but it's coming!
> 
> See you soon!
> 
> Erwaël


	3. And If I Was To Lose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft just finished his story about Eurus, and every thing is about to change...

“Whoever you saw, it can’t be her.”

And the window broke, startling the three men who turned to see what caused it.

“I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree.”

They all stood still. Sherlock and John looked at each other. It was her, they were certain of that. John got closer to Sherlock, grabbed his arm. He was not going to leave him alone, not this time. Sherlock glanced towards him, but he only gripped his forearm harder. Something in the detective’s eyes seemed to mean _don’t leave me, stay – please –_ so he stayed. Mycroft worried screams took him out of the moment, and he turned his eyes to him.

“Step back! Don’t move.”

Sherlock could feel the shiver down John’s spine, he could see the sudden fear in his eyes as the adrenaline rushed through his veins. He turned to Mycroft. John was scared, and it had to stop, right now.

“What is that, Mycroft!”

His brother seemed shook up by his voice.

“It’s called a patient grenade.”

“Patient?”

John looked down to look at the device, his fingers still firmly clinging onto Sherlock’s sleeve.

“Movement detector is activated. If we move, the grenade will explode.”

Next words blurred away as John was focusing on the drone on the floor. Movement equaled death. Rosie… he couldn’t even kiss Rosie goodbye. He had left her with her nanny without even taking a good look at her. Sometimes, he felt like even Sherlock was paying more attention to his daughter than himself. But forcing himself out of this thought, he said:

“Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock hands were steady, but he could feel the blood in his fingers burning from the inside, as if attracted by John’s hand. God, how much he wanted to hold that hand. But John would never want that. John… -_Anyone but you. Anyone. - A bloody game? - _ He needed to focus, so he could get all of them out of there and alive.

“She follows her routine. Two minutes left.”

“She stores her vacuum cleaner in the back.” John said sternly.

“So what?”

Mycroft was really an idiot sometimes.

“So she’ll be safer when she’ll be storing it. If we have to move, we should do it at this moment.”

Sherlock smiled lightly to John. He, on the contrary, was definitely not an idiot.

“Eight seconds after the vacuum stops. She speeds when she’s cleaning. Then we move.”

Mycroft nodded slightly.

“We have two to three seconds max once we’ll be moving.”

“Take the stairs. Help Mrs Hudson.”

John smiled again. Sherlock could be so caring sometimes, way different from the man he once met in a morgue. Mrs Hudson had always be special anyway –_Mrs Hudson, leave Baker Street? England would fall_ – he really cared about her. He almost didn’t pay attention to Mycroft’s protestations, soon shut up by Sherlock’s logic. As always.

“There must be a minute left. We’ll have to jump through the window”

“I’ll follow you.”

They were too close to jump from two different windows. One will have to jump first. Apparently, Sherlock wanted_ him _to jump first. He was going to protest, but Sherlock prevented him.

“Think about Rosie. Jump first.”

His gaze was promising _I won’t let you go alone, I’ll be right behind you, I swear John_.

“I’m not losing you again.”

John’s words were just a breath. Sherlock could feel his hand shaking against his arm.

“You won’t.”

“Sherlock.”

He looked at his brother.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I know.”

They all stayed silent for a few seconds. John’s fingers slipped down Sherlock’s sleeve a little.

“Good luck boys. Three, two, one...”

They all turned down and ran, as fast as they could. Maybe John ran even faster, because Sherlock was behind him, and he was holding his hand. Firmly. And he was going to be…

The window.

The glass. The blow of the explosion. The flap.

Then the ground, and Sherlock’s body falling onto his.

He was stunned, his head hurt.

“Sherlock?”

He tried to move, rolled to the side, and Sherlock fell next to him. There was a little bit of smoke coming from his back and John coughed.

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, _are you okay_?”

The detective opened his eyes, blinked a little. He made a face, trying to move.

“Can you hear me?”

A high-pitched noise rang in Sherlock’s ears. He could see John’s worried face over him. He seemed relatively unharmed, the flap had, as he predicted, slowed down his fall. He, on the other hand, was closer from the explosion, which explained the toll taken on his eardrums. He could see John’s lips moving without hearing what he was saying. He smiled a little, to reassure him.

“I’m fine.”

The doctor let out a relieved sigh. Sherlock sat up straight, and grabbed his hand again.

“I’m _fine._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally begining to change things! I hope you enjoyed it! Leave a review to let me know what you thought.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Erwaël


	4. The Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are taking over a fishermen's boat. More important, they're having a little talk about Mary.

“The pirate.”

John came from behind him and pointed a gun at the two men. A few moments later, they were both tied up, and Sherlock was rummaging into the boat’s stuff. He found a full set of fisherman clothes, and smiled. They smelled. Mycroft was going to hate them. He looked up towards John.

“They’re perfect. Call Mycroft.”

His brother was in the helicopter right behind them, arranging some story so the prison’s director would think he was in the hospital. After the explosion, they had quickly decided that they needed to slip into the prison. Mycroft was furious. Eurus clearly had escaped, and not only once but at least twice, maybe even more. And she had tried to kill them, and almost succeeded. They couldn’t trust anybody, which meant they had to try to get in using Sherlock’s way. Which was, as it always had been, both dangerous and crazy, but strangely exciting.

Mycroft joined them, looking sore under the rain. John would have felt sorry for him, if the slight burn on Sherlock’s back hadn’t come back to his memory. It could have been way worse. Mycroft’s henchman had provided them with creams, compresses and bandages and he disinfected and nursed Sherlock’s wounds. The detective had insisted on saying it was nothing, and he didn’t feel any pain, but John knew it was not quite true.

“John, I need your help to dress Mycroft up.”

He came closer to the brothers, and helped Sherlock with the wig and the make-up. By moments, their hands touched gently, as if they didn’t do it on purpose. John was pretty sure Sherlock did not –_ married to my work_ – but in his own case, he couldn’t say the same. He had always loved the feeling of Sherlock’s skin under his own. He hadn’t had many occasions to touch it, especially after his wedding, and even less after Mary’s death. Except, of course, when he snapped and beat Sherlock up, bruising his soft skin, his way-too-mysterious cheekbones, hitting him in the stomach stomach with an anger he had never thought himself capable of. Why did he even do that in the first place? His mind was not clear. His meeting with his psychologist – Eurus in fact – hadn’t help, but maybe they were not supposed to help if Eurus had something in mind… _He_ had been awful. Sherlock was hurt, he almost got killed by Culverton. He was ready to die to save him. Thinking about that now made him sick.

Nobody should ever die for him. And especially not Sherlock.

Sherlock’s voice startled John. He was talking to his brother, explaining him what he was expecting him to do to make sure they entered the complex without any issues. He was focused, calm, rational, as he always had been. John was not worried. He just had to follow the instructions, and Sherlock had already more or less told him what was going to happen. Mycroft pointed out a few things, and they decided to land on two different spots of the island.

“What about the director? Couldn’t he recognize your voice?”

Sherlock turned to John and answered:

“Most people are not smart enough to associate a voice with a face they’ve never seen.”

And you’re not most people, thought John. At least, that’s what Sherlock understood from the look he gave him. Of course he was not. His brother now looked like an old sailor, with a thick messy gray beard and yellow pants. They exchanged a quick look, before Sherlock turned away. John was looking at the sea, towards the small piece of land in the distance where Sherrinford lied. Looking at John was something that always soothed his heart. His squared shoulders, and the blue of his eyes, were two things he could always rely on. He left his coat hidden under a bench, keeping only his jacket. That was definitely too recognizable. He had to be as discreet as possible, to fool the security and the director.

“We’ll have to be quick. Sherlock, you go directly to Eurus. John, you and I will have a little chat with the director.”

John nodded. Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was exactly what he told his brother earlier. Mycroft just liked to feel like he was in charge. John got closer, and just stood next to him, silent. Sherlock glanced towards him. He had noticed the way John’s fingers brushed his, then backed off as if scared by something. Nothing very troubling. He was even surprised John could stand being around him, after what happened. He didn’t blame John for beating him up. He couldn’t keep him safe, couldn’t keep _Mary_ safe. And one more time, he was dragging him in a dangerous place, full of very dangerous people, and he was putting his life at stake.

“Sherlock. Be careful.”

John’s voice was gentle, and so was his hand which patted his arm. Sherlock blinked. John was the most troubling being he had ever known.

“Of course.”

He stared at John for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re wh- Sherlock, no- don’t – no, you don’t have to...”

John looked almost panicked, and Sherlock backed off. He wanted to turn around, to leave all this – the _feelings_ – behind, ready to confront his sister, to _focus_.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to be sorry! This is not your fault. None of this is. Not Eurus, not… Mary was not, is not your fault.”

He stopped. Went back to his mind palace –_ he’s entitled, I killed his wife – yes you did –_ John said it, didn’t he? - _You made a vow. You swore it. _\- He did. He swore he would protect them. And she died on his watch, because of him. It was-

“Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop. You did not kill her.”

“But, you told me...”

John sighed. He clenched his fists, looking suddenly sad and angry. Hadn’t he already told that to Sherlock? He had told him when…

“It was… _I _was a stupid, selfish, angry bastard. I blamed it all on you, because it was easier. Because I didn’t want to see everything I blamed _myself _for. And I wanted to see what I blamed on _her _even less. She was an assassin. A liar. A spy. And she was my wife, because I chose her. It was never your fault. She shot you. She put you in danger. And you saved her, again and again-”

“Of course I saved her. She was your wife.”

“Yes, she was. She put herself in danger, and she got killed. And I hated myself for it, you want to know why? Do you want to know the truth Sherlock?”

John’s voice was full of rage. Sherlock stood still, unable to move, unable, for the first time, to know what he should say or do. John shook his head, looking tired.

“We’re there, boys.”

They jumped with surprise. Mycroft showed them the coast. They had to start the plan. Sherlock gave John one last unsettled look, and went inside with his brother to make the call. John faced the sea again.

_Because I’d rather see her, my wife, dead than you. If I had to choose, I would let her be killed a thousand times rather than lose **you** a second time._

But those were words he couldn’t speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the Kudos! I'm happy you like this!  
Leave a comment to tell me what you think about this chapter.
> 
> And thank you Kat, if you read this, I added a few sentences yesterday after our chat about S4 John. Hope you'll notice them!
> 
> See you soon!  
Erwaël


	5. Something Is Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is a very short chapter, but it's the last that will be that short, I promise.
> 
> Context: John and Mycroft are in the governor's office. And something is wrong.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. John got out on the balcony, looking at the sea. They were stuck on this island. And something was not right. Mycroft was wrong. He was talking, but was not listening. There was something in this video, something… John couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He had tried to warn Sherlock, even if he still didn’t understand what was going on. But Sherlock was too focused on Eurus, or maybe he didn’t want to hear about him after what had happened on the boat. His voice… The voice. It was something about the voice. The voice on the video. He heard it before. No. He was _still _hearing it.

John went back into the room. Yes, he could hear it now. The voice… It was the governor’s voice. He turned to Mycroft.

“Listen to the tape.”

Mycroft looked baffled that John dared interrupt him.

“Sorry?”

“Do it now. Listen.”

But Mycroft kept talking.

“My sister’s methods of...”

“Just _listen_.”

John was angry now. Angry at Mycroft, who lead them into that prison, too sure, full of himself. Angry at himself, too. He should have stuck with Sherlock. The detective could be such an idiot sometimes, especially when he was emotionally compromised – and it was obvious that he _was_. Mycroft looked at the screen, and turned up the volume. The voice was clearer. Louder. There wasn’t any doubt. They shouldn’t have come. They jumped right into the trap. He looked back at the governor.

“_Everyone_ who went in there got affected – enslaved, you said.”

“Yes.”

Oh god. Deep down, he hoped he was wrong. But he wasn’t, was he?

“One after the other.”

“Yes.”

“Doctor Watson, I think we’ve...”

“You, shut up. You brought us here. We listened to your bullshit – you lied, again, didn’t you? - so now, you shut up, and you_ listen to __the damn__ tape_.”

Mycroft looked shocked. John had a cold smile. He stared at the governor.

“That’s _your_ voice on that tape, isn’t it?”

He could see from the corner of his eye Mycroft’s horrified face.

“If Eurus has enslaved _you_, then who exactly is in charge of this prison?”

John didn’t need to hear the answer. He knew. And Sherlock was with her.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

John knew what he was going to do. He jumped at him, trying to stop him, but it was too late. The governor had pressed a button on the remote. A siren started to sound and armed guards ran into the room. Mycroft looked completely baffled. John tried to think quickly, punching one of the guards and trying to escape – but escape where? They were on an island in the middle of the damn ocean! - to find Sherlock. Sherlock, where was he, what was going on? He pressed his earpiece.

“SHERLOCK! Sherlock, goddammit, answer me!”

But the siren was changing.

“Red alert! Red alert! Big bad bouncy red alert! Klingons attacking lower decks! Also, cowboys in black hats, and Darth Vader!”

John ran up the stairs – that voice, it was _his_ voice, why? He was dead, he had been dead for years, Sherlock said he was dead, how _could he_ -

“Don’t be alarmed! I’m here now! I’m here now!”

No, he was not. John looked around, where were the stairs? The elevator? He needed to get down, he needed to…

“Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”

He arrived in a room with technicians, they backed away from the screens and he could see Moriarty’s face looking at him.

“Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?”

John stopped, that was not true, it could be… He stepped back, trying to think, but a violent strike behind his head knocked him out. And everything went black.

“Miss me? Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the Kudos and the comments! See you soon!
> 
> Erwaël


	6. Play You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets his sister.

“Play _you_.”

“Me?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure. How did she know he wrote music? He hesitated. He could play _Waltz For John and Mary_, but wasn’t it too dangerous? She was clever. Too clever. He didn’t want to reveal himself that much, which is why he chose _Irene’s Lament_. She could easily be mistaken by this one, which he had written for Irene, thinking about her and what she revealed about him and John.

“Oh! Have you had sex?”

“Why do you ask?”

No, of course not. Irene did, though. John too. And he thought about them while writing, about Irene having sex, about what he’d heard – _I’m not actually gay – well, I am. Look at us both –_ four little words which stuck in his thoughts. Irene, John, John, Irene…

“The music. _I’ve_ had sex.”

Did she?

“How?”

How could she even know what sex was, locked up in this tiny cell, only accessing internet and books when Mycroft needed her talents – and his brother was surprised she was a psychopath. She had received no love, no affection, since she was five. Of course she was like that. Even if he said he was a sociopath, Sherlock knew he had feelings. He grew up with loving parents, even if he kept pushing them away. He knew enough of basic psychology to know that a child needed love to evolve correctly. And Eurus didn’t know love.

“One of the nurses got careless. I liked it. Messy though. People are so breakable.”

_Breakable_. What did she do to the poor guy? Sherlock kept playing.

“I take he didn’t consent.”

“He?”

Could she be like him? Sherlock thought about what Mycroft had said – _everything you are, is your memory of Eurus_ – then if he was gay, maybe…

“Maybe she?”

There was a little touch of hope in his tone, and he hated that. Feelings, always.

“Afraid I didn’t notice in the heat of the moment, and afterwards… well, you couldn’t really tell.”

She was nothing like him. She had no idea… What was it that she called sex?

“Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?”

He stopped. His heart was pounding in his chest.

“Can’t you tell the difference or are you just asking to unsettle me?”

He was sarcastic. It was obvious she did. She smiled a little.

“What do you think?”

She was smart.

“Clearly, you remember me.”

“I remember everything, every single thing. You just need a big enough hard drive.”

She didn’t know that at least. She didn’t know he remembered everything too, or at least everything he _chose_ to remember. Maybe that was the difference between them. She was unable to choose what to keep, when he was able to select, classify his memories in his Mind Palace. Did she have a Mind Palace? He started asking the question.

“How do you-”

“Sherlock.”

John –_ do you want to know the truth, Sherlock? - you didn’t kill Mary – you killed her! - unattached, like me – I’m not actually gay – don’t be dead – _STOP. He clenched his fists.

“Not now.”

Too many feelings. That was not good. He couldn’t _think_.

“Vatican Cameos.”

Yes, he knew, of course, there was something – what was it? - but right now he needed to focus on Eurus. He needed to know.

“In a minute.”

“That was John, wasn’t it?”

He put the earpiece in his pocket.

“How do you know?”

“Your eyes. They changed. He unsettles you, doesn’t he?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“Let’s continue.”

Sherlock watched her as she stepped closer from the glass wall.

“Did they tell you to keep three feet from the glass?”

“Yes.”

“Be naughty. Step closer.”

There was something. He knew there was. But what was it? - he needed to ask her, to know what she knew, to know what happened.

“Tell me what you remember.”

“You, me and Mycroft. Mycroft was quite clever. He could understand things if you went a bit slow but you… you were my favorite.”

Sherlock was fascinated. His heart still pounding, his mind racing through his head, he took a step closer.

“Why was I your favorite? Mycroft has always been the smart brother.”

“You were different than Mycroft and I. ‘Cause I could make you laugh. I _loved _it when you laughed. Once I made you laugh all night. I thought you were going to burst.”

Why couldn’t he remember that? He remembered so many things. When did he choose not to remember that?

“I was so happy. Then Mommy and Daddy had to stop me, of course.”

“Why?”

“Well, turns out I got it wrong. Apparently you were screaming.”

Sherlock frowned. How could she… That was obvious too. Why wasn’t Mycroft getting it? She couldn’t feel pain. Mycroft said it – _which one’s pain?_ \- so obviously, she couldn’t understand the difference. They should have taught her. Why did nobody teach her? He had heard about that disease, people who couldn’t feel pain, it was called congenital analgesia. Associated with the high intellect and the slight sociopathy which ran in the family, it seemed obvious that she would be so… different. Not only did she not understand sentiments, but she couldn’t feel pain, and her intellect forced her to try to understand things.

“Why was I screaming?”

Eurus just looked at him, without answering. Sherlock closed his eyes a second –_ Redbeard! -_ well, obviously.

“I remember Redbeard.”

“Do you now?”

She looked more interested than she ever had been. She was really close, now. If there was not the glass, he could almost touch her – what was it? Something – he stepped forward.

“Tell me what I don’t know.”

“Touch the glass.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Why would I?”

She grinned, and slowly raised her hand.

“Because you’re curious. You like to understand how things work, don’t you? And right now, you’re unsure. You’re not used to being unsure, are you?”

He thought about John – he was always thinking about John, wasn’t he? - _do you want to know the truth, Sherlock?_ \- yes, he was unsure. He had always been unsure about what to do with John. John who was the light in the darkness of his thought, both the lighthouse and the eye of the storm.

“It’s more common than you’d think.”

Sherlock raised his hand. Why not? He was playing it by ear now.

“Look at you. The man who sees through everything… is exactly the man who doesn’t notice...”

Their hands were moving towards each other – but he knew there was some thing, something his brain noticed but he hadn’t processed, what was it? What _was it?_

“… when there’s nothing to see through.”

And his brain processed it. There was no glass. She was holding his hand. Their fingers… her skin was soft – of course, she didn’t work, didn’t even get out that much, her skin was almost as soft as a baby’s. The signs. That’s what he had seen. He uttered:

“You got me.”

“Yes, I did. Do you see how it was done?”

“You suspended the signs.”

She smiled at him. She looked almost happy. He was frozen. John, I’m so sorry, I dragged you into this trap.

“And my voice? Throat mic. Puts me through the speakers. Don’t you think it’s clever?”

Sherlock could feel the shivers in his chest. He was trying to find an issue in his Mind Palace, but he couldn’t.

“You _are_ clever.”

“Of course. Do you want to know how I got out of here, now?”

She let go his hand, and he knew immediately it was going to be bad.

“Like this.”

And in a second, without him really realizing what was happening, she had slammed her wrists against his temples, and he was choking on the floor, her screaming resonating in his ears. And all went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are becoming longer, and action is coming. I hope you liked this one! Thank you for the kudos and the reviews.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Erwaël


	7. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up. Mycroft is overwhelmed. And there is an experiment.

Sherlock was pacing. John wasn’t waking up. Why wasn’t he waking up? A part of him, the logical one, knew it was because he had been hit behind the head pretty hard. But his feelings, his fear, everything he felt for John, made him stupid and irrational. He wanted John to wake up right now. His brother was watching him, silently not daring to say anything since he had told him to shut up earlier, when he had tried to mock his worry for his friend.

The governor was sitting in silence. He’d better do that anyway. Even if Sherlock knew that it was not really his fault, that Eurus had reprogrammed him, he didn’t want to hear the voice of the man who had allowed all _this_ by trespassing against Mycroft’s recommendations of not trying any psychiatric evaluation on Eurus. And knowing that Eurus was what she was probably because of Mycroft’s actions towards her – no love, no sentiment, not any explanation, preventing her to see her parents – didn’t help at all.

He needed John. And he needed him _now_.

And finally, John opened his eyes and made a pained noise. Sherlock hurried towards him with as much dignity as he could, and leaned towards his friend.

“Let me see your eyes.”

“Wh-”

“Pupils reactive, what’s your name?”

“John Wat- Sherlock, what are y-”

“Name of your daughter?”

“Rosamund Mary. Sherlock, I’m okay.”

Sherlock frowned.

“You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“Yes, but I’m okay now.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s cold hand and squeezed it a little.

“Did you see your sister?”

Sherlock didn’t move, unsure of what to do with those warm fingers holding his own long and freezing and trembling fingers tightly.

“Yes.”

John let go of his fingers with a gentle caress to rub the back of his head with a grimace.

“How was that?”

Sherlock grinned.

“Family’s always difficult.”

“Is that an occasion for banter?”

Sherlock and John exchanged an amused look. Mycroft’s exasperated tone was quite funny.

“Well, case in point.”

John let out a quick laugh at Sherlock’s gesture towards his elder. But their moment of relief was finished a second later, when the sound of a phone ringing could be heard. John looked at the speakers in the room and stood up next to Sherlock.

“Are we phoning someone?”

Sherlock shrugged without answering. It was quite obvious they were.

“And him, what’s he doing here?”

“As he is told. Eurus is in control.”

John nodded. Sherlock turned back to the screen. What was he thinking? Did he blame him for what happened on the boat? He shouldn’t have allowed himself to say the things he had said. Technically, he had already told Sherlock it wasn’t his fault, the day he revealed him everything about his affair, and Mary in his head, and… and when the hug happened. It should have been enough, shouldn’t it? But he knew nothing was simple about Sherlock’s mind. He had probably thought John had said that because he wanted him to get better. That was another ting he blamed Mary for. Why would she do that? Why ask Sherlock to destroy himself, to play with death?

The voice of a young girl snatched him out of his thoughts.

“Help me. Please, I’m on a plane and everyone’s asleep.”

Sherlock looked at his brother in disbelief. How could Eurus do all of this?

“Hello, I’m Jim Moriarty. Welcome, to the final problem.”

John looked at Sherlock, worried.

“Could he be...”

“No, he’s not. He’s dead.”

Sherlock’s voice was firm.

“This is a recorded announcement. Please say hello to some very old friends of mine.”

“Hello? I can hear you talking. Please help me! I’m on a plane and it’s going to crash!”

Mycroft was visibly overwhelmed.

“What is this? We can’t do this!”

Sherlock glanced towards him. He was almost the Head of the government, how could he be such an idiot?

“Do shut up, dear.”

“Is someone there?” the girl asked, sounding frightened.

“Is this supposed to be a game?”

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft was annoying.

“I don’t think so. Now, be quiet.”

“Please, help me!”

She sounded desperate. Maybe a little too much, wondered John. Could Eurus be faking that too? She had proved to be incredibly good at making people believe what she wanted them to.

“Oh, hello. Try- try to stay calm. Just, uhm, tell me what your name is.”

“I’m not supposed to tell my name to strangers.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a quick glance. Weird, but why not.

“Of course not. Very good um, I’ll, I’ll tell you mine. My name is...”

There was a click, then static. John frowned. Something was not right, and Sherlock was not thinking straight. He was focusing on this little girl too much, and too little on Eurus. Where was she anyway?

“Hello?”

Sherlock sounded worried. John got closer and was going to talk when Eurus interrupted him.

“Oh dear. We seem to have lost the connection.”

Eurus had appeared on the screen on the other side of the glass. Eurus was smiling, looking almost overjoyed with everything happening. Mycroft walked towards the glass, looking infuriated.

“How have you done this? How is _any_ of this possible?”

“The question would not be how, brother-mine, but why.”

Sherlock’s interruption startled Eurus. She stared at him for a second, then said, no longer smiling:

“You know why, Sherlock. You always were my favorite.”

Sherlock shivered and stepped back a little.

“And Mycroft, you know _how_. _You_ put me in here. _You_ brought me my treats.”

Sherlock and John stared at the older Holmes. What had he done? Sherlock muttered:

“What treats?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. He turned his head to the wall, like a child who’d just been caught red-handed. Suddenly, all the lights turned red and Moriarty’s voice resonated again. John shivered. He hated that. He hated Sherlock being reminded of what happened to Moriarty. What happened on that bloody roof. He grit his teeth. Maybe he was the one who had a problem with it. Moriarty was dead. He was out of their lives for good. He didn’t want to hear about him ever again. He snapped.

“How can that be Moriarty?”

Eurus shrugged.

“Oh, he recorded a lots of little messages for me before he died.”

How could he know her?

“Loved it. Did you know his brother was a station master? I think he was always jealous.”

Sherlock was pacing. Too many things to think about. Too. Many. Narrow it down!

“The girl.”

First. The endangered child in a huge plane which was going to crash. Then. Eurus and getting out of there. And John. John couldn’t go first on that one.

“Where is she? Can I talk to her again?”

“Poor little thing. Alone in the sky in a great big plane with nowhere to land. But where in the world is she? It’s a clever little puzzle. If you want to apply yourself to it, I can reconnect you; but first...”

Eurus had a calm voice, so calm it was almost scary. Something was off, but John couldn’t tell what it was. She turned to the window behind her, and they could see a woman being tied to a chair. The governor stood up, panicked.

“That’s my wife!”

_Shit_. That was bad. That was really bad. She had much more influence that they thought, if she could kidnap a woman and bring her on a remote island lost in the sea.

“I’m going to shoot the governor’s wife.”

“Oh, please, no!”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Why would you do that? I doesn’t...”

“Because I’m making an experiment! And I need your full cooperation. I’m going to kill her, except if you do something for me.”

The governor jumped and grabbed Sherlock’s shirt.

“Please do it! Save her!”

Sherlock had a disgusted look toward the man who broke Mycroft’s rules and got all of them in this situation.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Choose either Doctor Watson or Mycroft to shoot the governor. You have about a minute.”

Sherlock took a step back, shocked. John or Mycroft. One of them was going to shoot a man now. The governor’s cries were disturbing. What if…

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Eurus was mocking him.

“You can’t do it. It has to be one of them. Otherwise, I’ll kill her anyway. Your brother or your friend. Choose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're finally getting in the complicated parts!
> 
> Leave a comment and tellme what you think!
> 
> Love,  
Erwaël


	8. Choosing Is Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eurus is making an experiment, and there will be rigor.

He couldn’t. It was the first thought which crossed Sherlock’s mind. He couldn’t choose. He knew John was a soldier, he had already killed people, but not like that. He didn’t want his friend to have blood on his hands.

“You have to do this.”

Sherlock wanted to punch that man’s face so he would shut up. He couldn’t _think_. John was looking at him. John. I’m so sorry. John was the logical choice, of course. He knew he was. Mycroft was not a killer. He might have orchestrated murders, but he had never killed a man with his own hands. He was, in fact, a big softie. Sherlock could remember his big brother trying not to cry when he had discovered a tiny bird dead in their garden. His logic was telling him to pick John. He moved, and handed the gun to Mycroft, who looked horrified.

“Countdown starting.”

“How long?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gestured with the gun. His logic said John, but his heart disagreed. Not John. He couldn’t bare to see John kill a man in cold blood _because of him_. That had happened before. But it was different. John was different. It was to save him. Mary wasn’t dead.

“No, no, no. The countdown is for me.”

John closed his eyes. He knew what he had to do. Sherlock was frozen still, and the governor was crying. Mycroft was looking at Sherlock fixedly. She was considering them as guinea pigs. Or even less than that. Did she feel anything? She was watching them with interest, as if she was watching a documentary or a reality show.

“Withholding the precise deadline will apply the emotional pressure more evenly. Where possible, please give me an explicit verbal indication of your anxiety levels. I can’t always read them from your behavior.”

Mycroft frantically shook his head.

“I can’t do this.”

Sherlock grit his teeth.

“Is that so different from when you’re ordering killings from your office?”

Mycroft straightened up.

“It’s murder.”

“You do know the only difference is that, this time, you’ll be the one holding the gun.”

Sherlock was still facing his brother. Eurus reminded them of her presence.

“I’m particularly focused on internal conflicts, where strategising around a largely intuitive moral code appears to create a counter-intuitive result.”

Mycroft looked at the screen in disbelief.

“What are you doing little sister? What kind of experiment is this?”

“The one nobody ever let me try.”

Mycroft lowered his head. He had no answer to that. Sherlock gestured in front of him.

“Mycroft!”

He straightened up.

“I will not kill! I will not have blood on my hands!”

Eurus smiled a little.

“Yes, very good. Thank you.”

The governor grabbed Mycroft’s jacket.

“Killing my wife is what you’re doing!”

Mycroft pushed him away and shook his head.

“No!”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment more, then lowered his eyes. He knew he had to do this from the beginning. He knew it had to be him. John. He turned to him.

“Okay, fine.”

John straightened up. It was quite obvious Mycroft wouldn’t kill a man. He did not even understand why Sherlock had tried. It was his job. He was a soldier. He had killed people. He could do it again.

“John.”

He took a step towards Sherlock, unable to stretch out his hand to take the gun. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s. The governor turned to him.

“Doctor Watson. Are you married?”

The question was like a blade through his heart. He saw Sherlock take a sharp breath, his jaw clenching. He wanted to touch him.

“I was.”

“What happened?”

She was a murderer, she lied to me, I lied to her, and she got killed because she never trusted Sherlock or me.

“She died.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes and pressed his lips together. John said it was not his fault. John forgave him. On two occasions now, he had told him that it wasn’t his fault – _you didn’t kill Mary – Mary died saving your life, it’s her choice – you didn’t kill her_ – but he couldn’t wrap his head around it. She had given her life for him. He had no idea what to make of that. If he had been more careful, she would still be here. With John.

“What would you give to get her back? I mean, if you could, if it was possible.”

John breathed in brusquely. What would he do? Sherlock was looking at him again, his eyes so expressive, so…

“Nothing.”

It had been just a breath, so soft that he was pretty sure nobody heard him. But Sherlock had a movement of surprise, and he knew _he _did. Of course he did. He locked eyes with him again. Sherlock’s hand was shaking. Before he knew it, the gun was in his hand. Sherlock opened his mouth, obviously wanting to question him, but he turned to the governor.

“Eurus will kill me. Please, save my wife.”

The lights in the cell turned red, and Moriarty’s face appeared on the screen.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock….”

Eurus appeared on the screen, remote control in hand.

“There will, I’m afraid, be regular prompts to create an atmosphere of urgency.”

John stared at the governor. It was his fault. It was his fault, for trying to analyze Eurus despite Mycroft telling him otherwise. The man looked desperate. He stood still, trying to make up his mind. He had to do it. He had to. He saw Mycroft turn to the wall and hide his face behind his hand from the corner of his eyes, but he was not focusing on him. Sherlock was still staring at him. He knew he would have to explain what he meant later, but that was not a discussion he was eager to have. He looked at the face of the man he was going to kill.

“What’s your name?”

“David.”

He took a deep breath.

“Are you sure about this, David?”

“Of course I am.”

John’s hand was steady. Sherlock wanted to stop him from doing what he was going to do. He didn’t want him to kill this man, because he knew it would break him. Maybe not immediately, it would be slow, but it would get to him. He would have nightmares, then, during the day, he would find himself thinking about it. The way he pulled the trigger. The exact moment the skull exploded, covering his sleeves with blood and brain matter. Slowly, it would get worse. Until he would not be able to take it anymore. But the governor’s wife. The little girl.

“D’you want to pray or anything?”

“With Eurus Holmes in the world, who the hell would I pray to?”

John’s heart was pounding. He could feel the weight of the pistol in his hand. Sherlock’s gaze on him was just as heavy. He turned his head to meet it, and said softly:

“I have to.”

“I know.”

But he couldn’t. He made David turn, so he wouldn’t see his face when shooting him.

“Please!”

His finger settled more firmly against the trigger when he heard the anguish in the man’s voice. He had to stay strong. He made him kneel, and told him:

“You ‘re scared, but you should be proud.”

“Oh God, just do it!”

John straightened up. Watching the man’s back, the only thing he could see was Sherlock falling. Mary bleeding out. The weight of the gun was insufferable now. His shoulder was burning, just like it used to burn when he had come back from the war. Sherlock falling. Mary dying. Sherlock bleeding out, shot by his wife. His blood on the ground. His heart stopping.

“Tock-tock-tock-tick-tick-tick.”

“This is very good, Doctor Watson.”

His hands were not steady anymore. Sherlock falling – _that’s what people do, don’t they, leave a note –_ and Mary – _you were my whole world_ – Sherlock – _he’s entitled – I killed his wife –_ and this neck bent in front of him, offered.

“I should have fitted you with a cardiograph.”

Sherlock wanted to kill her. To wipe her out of existence, just as she had been wiped out of his existence, of his own memory for years. Part of him pitied her for what she had become, away from love and humanity. And another one couldn’t understand how she could be like that. He took one step in John’s direction, raising his hand to touch hi back, and stopped a few inches from the skin of his neck. The light turned red.

“Tock-tock-tock-tock-tick-tick-tick”

John pressed the barrel of the gun against the governor’s skull. David whimpered, crying.

“Please!”

But the doctor’s hand was shaking. Suddenly, he stepped back, and his bare skin collided with Sherlock’s fingers. He froze for a second, unsure of what to do, but Sherlock pulled them out quickly.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

Sherlock smiled softly at him, reassuring.

“I know. It’s all right.”

But in a second, the governor had scrambled to his feet and he jumped at John’s throat. He didn’t have time to react, and Sherlock had not even moved that the man turned the pistol to himself, looking at them wit despair. John yelled.

“Stop!”

They all backed away towards the wall.

“No, don’t do it! It’s all right!”

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

John tried to move, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. He looked at him, but the detective’s face prevented him from saying anything. The man was now sobbing.

“Remember me.”

“No!”

Sherlock let go of John’s arm and they rushed towards David, but it was too late. He pulled the trigger. The loud noise resonated in the room, almost deafening. Blood and brain matter stained the glass wall, dripping on the floor. John’s head was ringing. Mycroft turned away, gagging, and vomited against the wall. Sherlock stepped back, looked at him briefly when the stench came to him. His brother had always been sensible. He placed his hand on John’s shoulder.

“Are you all right?”

John had his head down, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying not to snap. He finally looked at Sherlock, who shivered at the weight in his eyes. On the screen, Eurus was smiling.

“Interesting.”

Sherlock walked towards the glass, and leaned towards David’s body to close his eyelids. Then, he said quietly:

“All right, there you go. You got what you wanted… and he’s dead.”

Eurus let out a giggle.

“Dead or alive, he really wasn’t very interesting, but you three…”

She paused, and leaned closer to the camera. John was still motionless. Sherlock got back to him, touching his arm again, trying to get a reaction from him.

“You three were wonderful. Thank you. You see, what you did, Doctor Watson?”

He raised his head to look at her, at Sherlock grabbed his wrist. Their fingers touched, but Sherlock didn’t let go.  
“Specifically because of your moral code, because you don’t want blood on your hands, two people are dead instead of one.”

They looked at her, startled. John finally opened his mouth.

“Two people?”

“Yes. Sorry, hang on.”

She turned to the window. And shot the governor’s wife.

_Please. Someone get us out of here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your reviews! I hope you liked this chapter.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Erwaël


	9. Experiments Have Rigor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Context: John realizes how much Eurus is dangerous. Sherlock has a case.

“You didn’t have to kill her!”

John was enraged. Eurus shrugged.

“Well, as previously said, this is an experiment. There will be rigor. The condition of her survival was that you or Mycroft had to kill her husband. What advantage did you moral code grant you?”

John remained silent. She was right. Oh God, she was _right_. He had killed them. Both of them. He was not like Mycroft, who could send teams all around the world to kill people and tell everyone that he had not blood on his hands. He hadn’t pull the trigger. But he had still killed both of them. His breath was quick and sharp. He was- he- Sherlock’s hand on his wrist slipped down and their fingers were intertwined. He squeezed them tight. Sherlock got closer, just a few inches from him, and said:

“Stop blaming yourself, John. It was not your fault.”

“Yes, keep telling him that Sherlock. Now, _pick up the gun_. And when I’ll tell you to use it, remember what happened this time.”

He didn’t stop lookin at John and said:

“What if I don’t want a gun?”

“Oh, you should want it though. It’s a mercy.”

“For whom?”

“You.”

He raised his head to look at her, but didn’t let go of John’s hand, still holding it tight.

“How so?”

She smiled at him, amused.

“Well, if someone else had to die, would you really want to do it with your bare hands?”

He looked a the gun. John squeezed his fingers a little, and he turned back to him.

“Just take it, Sherlock.”

The detective finally let go of John’s hand and picked up the gun. Why would he need it? Or rather, when? He was not stupid. Including him, there were only three people left in this room. And he didn’t want to kill either of them. What did she want exactly? To crush him to pieces? To make him feel what she felt when they locked her up into this prison? Scared to be right, he checked the barrel.

“There’s only one bullet left.”

“You will only _need_ one. But you _will_ need it.”

He hated being right. Well, most of the time, he loved it, but right now, he hated it. On the left wall, a panel slided to one side, revealing a passage.

“Please, go through. There’s a few tasks for you, and a girl on a plane is getting very, _very_ scared.”

John watched Sherlock head towards the exit without saying anything. He slowly moved his fingers, missing the warm touch of Sherlock’s hand. The detective had never been that… touchy. Since this morning, it seemed he couldn’t keep his hands off him. And John had to say it was not at his displeasure. He followed Sherlock and Mycroft in the narrow corridor to a room similar to the one they were in, except that it looked like a bedroom. Sherlock frowned.

“Someone’s been redecorating.”

Jon shrugged.

“I guess she can do whatever she wants.”

They inspected the room. It was old-style, with a canopy bed, and green tapestry. On the ceiling, there were old pipes which led to a wood-burner. Next to the bed there was a cage with a canary. Finally, on the table, she had left a few documents and photographs. Sherlock got closer to them, and Eurus reappeared on the screen behind the glass wall.

“As motivator to your continued co-operation, I’m now reconnecting you.”

Moriarty re-appeared on the screen.

“Fasten you seatbelts! It’s gonna be a bumpy night.”

“Are-are you still there?”

Sherlock closed his eyes a second.

“Yes, hello? … Hello, we’re still there. Can you hear us?”

“Yes!”

They all sighed in relief.

“Everything’s gonna be all right. I just need you to tell me where you are. Outside, is it day or night?”

“Night.”

Mycroft crossed his arms.

“That certainly narrows it down to half the planet.”

Sherlock and John glared towards him, and Sherlock continued.

“What kind of a plane are you on?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

John stepped forward and asked:

“Is it big or small?”

“Big.”

“Lots of people on it?”

“Lots and lots, but they’re all asleep. I can’t wake them up.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a quick look, and Sherlock said:

“Where did you take off from?”

“Even the driver’s asleep.”

“No, I understand; but where did you come from? Where did the plane take off?”

“My nan’s.”

She sounded really young and scared, but her answer startled John. There was something here… something he couldn’t put his finger on, but it was not right.

“And where are you going?”

“Home.”

“No, I mean what airport are you...”

There were a click, and Eurus appeared on the screen. She seemed to have fun.

“Enough for now. Time to play a new game. Look on the table in front of you.”

Sherlock turned away, frustrated. John got closer to the table and examined the envelope. He came next to him, their arms and shoulder touching. He needed the touch. The warmth. Had been needing it since Mary’s death, maybe even longer, since he came back from Middle-East. But he never dared asking, or even thinking about it. Mary was there. Then she wasn’t, and it got worse. And now, John was touching him. Grabbing his hand. His shoulder. He needed it so much.

“Open the envelope! If you want to speak to the girl again, _earn_ yourself some phone time!”

John and Sherlock exchanged a look. As Sherlock put the pistol down on the wood table, John opened the envelope and got its content out on the table. Mycroft was pacing, and suddenly burst out of exasperation:

“This is inhuman, this is insane!”

“Mycroft. We know.”

John was firm, steady. Sherlock felt warmth invading his stomach. His soldier was here. His John.

“The last three years, three murders happened. A man, Horatio Wilson, then his wife, and their son. Unsolved, except by me.”

John was examining the documents. There were pictures of the three corpses, of the rooms, autopsy reports, and curriculum of the whole family. He started reading them aloud.

“Horatio Wilson’s body was found in the Thames. He was an alcoholic, so police report says he fell and drowned. Then, the mother. She had a heart condition and died of a heart attack in her room. Deposition of a passerby suggests that he heard a scream of terror at the time of the death.”

Mycroft cut him.

“But she died of a heart attack didn’t she? He must be wrong.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“Please John, keep reading.”

“Okay. So, the last death was Phineas Wilson. Like his mother, he had a heart condition and suffered from insomnia. He also died of a heart attack. They did an autopsy because of his face, which was torn in terror. Well, I know sometimes heart attacks can do that…”

Sherlock was pacing. He looked around a little bit, then asked:

“Eurus. Does the sister have a fragile heart too?”

“Yes she does.”

He nodded.

“Okay. John. The curriculums.”

“Erm… Well, Horatio Wilson was a banker, and his wife didn’t work. Their son work in insurances, and Janet is soon-to-be teacher. The uncle, Theobold, came back from Cuba a few years ago. He used to be a merchant, but he now breeds canaries.”

Sherlock took the pictures on the table to look at them. He could see different room. Three of them had wood burners, the last one had electrical heating system. It appeared to be the uncle’s room, as it was full of canaries. Eurus interrupted his train of thoughts.

“Please, make use of your friends, Sherlock. I want to see you interact with people you’re close to. Also, you may have to choose which one to keep.”

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, and showed him the pictures.

“What do you make of it?”

Mycroft looked offended.

“Am I being asked to prove my usefulness?”

Sherlock sighed. He was done with his brother’s bullshit.

“Yes, I should think you are.”

“I will not be manipulated like this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to his friend.

“Fine. John?”

He took the pictures, then looked around him.

“There’s something… Yes, this.”

He took a chair, climbed on it and pointed marks with his fingers.

“It’s soot. Trails of soot. I don’t know, it’s just… This room is very clean. How could soot get here?”

Sherlock examined the trails, triggered by he didn’t know what. He was looking at the picture, them the curriculums, when suddenly, the room went dark. There was just a slight light coming from outside, behind the half-closed shutters. Mycroft huffed.

“Well done Doctor Watson. How useful you are. Do you have a suspicion we are being made to compete?”

John had heard enough. He stepped towards him, angry, and said firmly:

“No, we’re not competing. There’s a plane in the air that’s gonna crash, so what we’re doing is actually trying to save a little girl. Today we have to be soldiers, Mycroft, soldiers.”

He saw from the corner of his eye that Sherlock was now watching him. There was a dark glow in his eyes, and it made John shiver. He loved it.

“... and that means to _hell_ with what happens to us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Kudos to anyone who will give me the title of the adventure I rewrite here.
> 
> This is getting heavier, isn't it? See you soon!  
Thank you for your reviews!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Erwaël


	10. The Horror of  Sherrinford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, this week is my last week in uni, and I'm really, really busy. I've still got a few chapters of advance, but I don't have time to write more so I'll post a chapter per week (instead of every four days) until I finished all my exams and essays.
> 
> Context: Sherlock is scared. John acts like a soldier.

Sherlock lowered his head again, trying to cover his smile. God, John was sexy when he was doing this soldier thing. Even if he was never going to tell him, of course. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"Your priorities do you credit."

"No, my priorities just got a woman killed!"

He came back to Sherlock who was studying the pictures, his hands shaking. Sherlock gave him a quick look and he took a deep breath. It was not the moment for his little emotions to burst out. He had to stay calm, so Sherlock could operate and get them out of there.

"Now, as I understand it, Sherlock, you try to repress your emotions to refine your reasoning. I'd like to see how that works. But hopefully, some context will soon be applied to your deductions."

They exchanged a worried look. What context? And suddenly, the canary started to sing. It was a weird song, like a whistling beginning with a low, throaty warble and slowly ascending to a single chord that rang through the room like the note of a great wineglass. After a few minutes, John said:

"I think I… Sherlock, I heard that before. In Afghanistan. One of my mates loved birds. He listened to them all the time. We were so tired of it. He especially listened to this one, at night. It was a bird from Cuba, from the rainforest. But why would a canary-"

"Doctor Watson. Get. Away. From the wood burner. And I mean, get away from it _now_."

Mycroft sounded frightened. John backed away, so did Sherlock, who was visibly in his Mind Palace. Suddenly, he turned his head to John.

"Oh. OH. I know. I know how he did it. How clever."

The lid of the stove was slowly rising.

"We have to- John, grab something, anything!"

John looked around, not understanding why Sherlock sounded so scared all of a sudden. He grabbed a broom which was placed in one corner of the room, while Sherlock took a poker. Then they remained silent, waiting for the lid to fully open. He looked at Sherlock and could see that he was afraid. Sherlock moved slightly to be in front of him, and it annoyed John. He didn't really know why, but he knew the detective was protecting him, and he didn't like that. He didn't need to be protected. He took a step forward to be alongside Sherlock. They exchanged a quick glance, and he straightened up. He was not going to move. He was here, with Sherlock, and he was going to face whatever was in that damn wood burner.

John Watson never thought of himself as an impressionable man, but when the lid tilted back, he stood frozen in horror. Through the gap, he could see a writhing mass of yellow, stick-like objects clawing and scrabbling for a hold. At first, he couldn't see what it was. Insect? Animal? Then he realized it was one of the biggest spiders he had ever seen in his life. It was bigger than a large plate, with a hard, smooth, yellow body and it had long legs, rising high above it. Poison glowed on its mandibles, and if it was mostly hairless, tufts of stiff bristles stuck out around the leg joints.

"John. Don't move!"

But Sherlock's whispering was enough to startle the creature which suddenly sprang from the stove to the bird cage, then the bed, the wall, the ceiling… It was almost too fast to follow, but Sherlock jumped towards it and yelled:

"Smash it! Kill it!"

John rushed behind him while the thing was trying to escape them. Mycroft was standing still in a corner, visibly terrified, and screamed when the spider jumped towards him. John intercepted it with his broom and threw it to the ground, then he smashed it again and again until he heard a squelching sound. He stopped, breathing hard. It looked like a mess of smashed eggs, with bony legs still twitching. Then he heard Mycroft gasp. He turned around slowly. A second creature was looking at him from the stove. It was still, but seemed ready to jump. John stood silent, and raised his eyes towards Sherlock who was behind the spider. Their eyes locked. Sherlock's eyes looked utterly terrified, even if the rest of his body was relaxed. And then, everything happened really fast.

The spider jumped. John screamed and crossed his arms in front of his face. He felt the long legs scratching his hands, then the poker hit his arms, and the creature let out a horrible screech while Sherlock was hitting it. Viscous and bony things poured through John's arm onto his face, and he firmly closed his mouth and eyelids. Eventually, everything stopped. He didn't move, his whole body shaking, his arms hurting – he knew he was going to have bruises.

"John, John are you okay?"

John heard sheets being pulled off from the bed, and Sherlock's hands were everywhere, the sheets drying his face and his arms, removing whatever was left of the spider. He couldn't stop shaking. Why couldn't he stop shaking? His eyes were still closed, and he felt Sherlock's fingers on his face.

"Tell me it didn't bite you! John!"

He finally took a deep breath.

"It didn't bite me."

Sherlock let out a relieved sigh. John opened his eyes. Sherlock's face was only inches from his. His hands were around his face, caressing his cheekbones, his fingers slightly played with the hair behind his ears. There was a singular light in his icy blue eyes. John could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and, slowly but surely, the shaking got better.

"You're okay, you're okay."

Sherlock was repeating those words like a mantra. John's sweet blue eyes were still full of fear. The spider's fluids stained his shirt even if he had tried to remove it with the bed's sheet. He let his hands slide down and said:

"You need to remove this."

John nodded in agreement, and tried to unbutton his shirt. But his fingers were still not steady enough. Sherlock grabbed his hands.

"Just… Let me..."

John looked at him strangely but didn't protest. Sherlock was unsure but he unbuttoned the shirt slowly, trying to focus on where they were and on the fact that his _brother and sister_ were watching him, Mycroft being literally less than three feet away and Eurus analyzing his every move. This was definitely not how he had pictured the first time he would be allowed to undress John Watson. Well, to be honest, he had been pretty sure it would never happen – y_ou, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, __p__eople might talk__ –_ no, this time didn't count. Each button revealed a bit more of John's skin, more than he had ever seen. When he was done, he raised his eyes to look at John's face. The doctor was blushing. Sherlock saved this image in his Mind Palace, next to – _John hugging him on the wedding day – John smiling at him in his armchair – a glimpse of John undressing in the bathroom, just before he closed the door – _and it was perfect.

John took off his shirt, shivering in the cold room. Sherlock gave him his jacket, and he thanked him. The jacket smelled like Sherlock. Tea, tobacco, and his aftershave. It was a comforting smell. It was too big for him, which made him look smaller than he was, but he didn't mind. The detective threw his dirty shirt away, and turned to the screen. Eurus was watching them silently. He said, or rather growled:

"Why would you do that? You could have killed one of us!"

She shrugged.

"I trusted you and Doctor Watson's abilities. But I must admit that Mycroft surprised me. Well done, big brother."

Sherlock was furious. John was behind him, huddled in his jacket - why did he think "huddled", had his brain seen something he hadn't? - and it was Eurus's fault. He was cold and scared and angry and it was his sister's fault.

"Now, Sherlock, tell me. Who's guilty? Let me know, and justice will be done."

Behind her, he could see two people. A girl and a middle-aged man. Janet and Theobold. They were on two chairs, ropes around their necks, arms tied behind their backs. He looked at Eurus and asked:

"What will you do with them?"

She smiled coldly.

"Even you can guess that."

Sherlock grit his teeth. Yes, he could. But he always hoped he was wrong, even if, by now, she had proven to him that she would do anything to hurt him.

"Sherlock! Are you ready?"

He hesitated, turned to John. They exchanged a quick glance, then he got back to Eurus.

"Theobold."

"_Say _it. Condemn him."

John came next to Sherlock, touching his shoulder.

"Condemn him in the knowledge of what will happen to the man you name."

Sherlock took a long breath.

"I condemn Theobold Wilson."

A rope he had not seen pulled the chair under the girl's feet and she fell. Even through the camera, they were able to hear her neck when it broke. She convulsed, piss and shit dripping between her legs. Mycroft gasped, and John brought his hand to his mouth in sheer horror.

"Mind the gap."

Even from the grave, Moriarty was still mocking them.

"Congratulations! You got the right one. Now, go through the door."

John walked towards the screen, angry.

"Why did you do that? She was not guilty! She was a victim!"

"Does it really make a difference, killing the innocent instead of the guilty? Let's see."

John opened his mouth to protest, but it was too late. Theobold hung from the ceiling, just like his niece. He clenched his fists, breathing heavily. She was a bloody monster.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was soft.

"Don't let her distract you."

"Distract me?"

John's voice was tight. Sherlock got closer.

"Soldiers today."

Mycroft had been strangely quiet, and he still was. Maybe because of the guilt he felt when he looked at the whole situation, knowing that he partly provoked it. But also maybe because of the constant tension that was growing between John and Sherlock since this morning, and in which he knew he had no part. In any case, he was quiet and he intended to stay that way. His brother seemed to have finally found the guts to face whatever it was that he was feeling for John Watson, and he was not going to stand in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! I hope you liked it, and did you find the name of the adventure? Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Erwaël


	11. About Death and A Coffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am SO SO SO SORRY. Like, seriously, it's been FOREVER. I've been very busy with college, and writing a novel for september that my teachers have to read, which is stressing me out, and I haven't been able to work on anything other than it for a few month. But hey, I didn't forget this fic, and I intend to finish it!  
I hope some of you are still there.

The three men left the room, leaving behind them John’s shirt. John wasn’t sure how he was feeling about the whole situation. Part of him was scared and angry, and wanted to get out of here. But another part was... Well, excited. And not only in an intellectual way. He was wrapped up in Sherlock’s jacket, merely resisting the urge to huddle in it, inhaling deeply Sherlock’s smell – _cold tobacco – Earl Grey – aftershave – _and he loved it. Maybe a little bit too much. What was wrong with him? Maybe he’d known it for a long time – _you’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people…_ \- and yes he was. Sherlock was handsome in his tight white shirt. John hated himself for thinking that right now, but he was. And, for God’s sake, he should never have followed Sherlock, because he had a unique view on his behind and…

He forced himself out of his thoughts. Not now, John. Seriously. You can sort out whatever is between Sherlock and you later. The room they arrived in was painted with blue and light brown. Mycroft touched the wall: the paint was fresh. There was a huge screen on the wall, and on the center of the room, an open coffin, with the lid propped up against the far wall. Sherlock got closer to the coffin and touched it, looking down at it. The speakers clicked.

“One more minute on the phone.”

“I’m really frightened.”

The little girl was back. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to focus, to ignore the fact that he was cold because _John was wearing his jacket_.

“It’s okay, don’t worry. I don’t have very long with you, so I just need you to tell me what you can see outside the plane.”

“Just the sea. I can see the sea.”

“Are there ships on it?”

“No ships. I can see lights in the distance.”

Lights. That was not good. He could hear Mycroft pacing behind him. His brother was agitated, and more worried than he had ever been. He had to focus. To be sure.

“Is it a city?”

“I think so.”

Sherlock had never been someone who swore a lot. But right now, he really wanted to be rude. He turned to look at John, whose face indicated that he was thinking the same thing. Then, for a second, it became thoughtful, and Sherlock was going to ask him what was going through his mind when Mycroft said quietly:

"She’s about to fly over a city in a pilotless plane. We’ll have to talk her through it."

“Through what?”

John was calm, but Sherlock could tell at his clenched fists that he didn’t like the idea that was emerging.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

Sherlock spoke louder so she could hear him.

“Still here. Just give us a minute.”

“Getting the plane away from any mainland, any populated areas. It _has_ to crash in the sea.”

Mycroft was so quiet it was unsettling. John stared at him in disbelief. Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder, knowing perfectly what he was going to say.

“What about the girl?”

“Well, obviously, Doctor Watson, she’s the one who’s going to crash it.”

John shook his head, refusing to accept the only viable solution.

“No. W-we could help her land it.”

“And if we fail, and she crashes into a city? How many will die then?”

Mycroft was right, and Sherlock knew that. It was obvious. John could understand that. It was not _right_ but they had to do it. His friend lowered his head.

“How are we gonna get her to do that?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to give her hope.”

Give a little girl hope. Sherlock didn’t like the idea, and he knew John didn’t either. What if she had been Rosie? What if Rosie was lost in a plane, above the sea? Would they make her crash the plane? He asked one more time, hoping the answer would change.

“Is there really no-one there that can help you? Have you really, _really_ checked?”

“Everyone’s asleep. Will you help me?”

The three men exchanged a quick look. They had no choice.

“We’re going to do everything that we can.”

“I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

“It’s all right. I...”

The speakers clicked and she was gone. Sherlock grit his teeth in frustration, while John and Mycroft turned to the screen which suddenly switched on and Eurus appeared, smiling. She straightened up in her chair and clapped her hands.

“Now, back to the matter in hand! Problem: someone is about to die. It would be – as I understand it – a tragedy.”

One more murder. When would she stop? John perfectly knew the answer. She would only stop when she’d have had destroyed Sherlock, crushing his mind and soul to pieces. Sherlock walked around the head of the coffin, playing with the gun he still had in hand. Eurus looked back at the camera with a sad expression on her face – of course, it was fake, which was even more insulting.

“So many days not lived, so many words unsaid. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...”

Sherlock snapped, exasperated.

“Yes, yes, yes, and this – I presume – will be their coffin.”

“_Whose_ coffin, Sherlock ? Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment.”

Sherlock started pacing around the coffin, already starting to make deductions. John stood still, just waiting for him to talk, knowing that interfering with his thoughts wouldn’t help.

“Well, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I’d say this coffin is intended for someone of about five foot four. Makes it more likely to be a woman.”

“Not a child?”

John was looking worryingly at the small coffin.

“A child’s coffin would be more expensive. This is in the lower price range, although still best available in that bracket.”

“A lonely night on Google.”

Something in John’s voice startled Sherlock. He looked at him inquiringly, and the doctor just shrugged without meeting his eyes. Well, so John had done that once. When? Was it when Sherlock faked his death? Or maybe… Maybe after Mary’s death? No, Molly had helped him. He turned back to the coffin, trying to focus on the case.

“This is a practical and informed choice. Balance of probability suggests that this is for an unmarried woman distant from her close relatives. That much is suggested by the economy of choice. Acquainted with the process of death but unsentimental about the necessity of disposal. Also, the lining of the coffin...”

A profile was emerging. And suddenly, Mycroft’s voice interrupted his reflexion.

“Yes, very good, Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid.”

He had moved towards the lid while Sherlock was talking, and was now holding it. He turned it so they could both see it, and Sherlock felt his heart sink in his chest.

“Only it isn’t a name.”

No, it wasn’t. There were not many options now. Few people loved him. Mrs Hudson did, but she would not have chosen a coffin yet. Mycroft and John did, but they were in this room. His parents, of course, but Sherlock knew they wanted to be incinerated. Only two people remained.

“So, it’s for somebody who loves somebody.”

John noticed Sherlock's pained look, and regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. No, it was more obvious than that.

“It’s for somebody who loves Sherlock. This is all about you. Everything here.”

It was true, and John knew it.

“So who loves you? I’m assuming it’s not a long list.”

All of a sudden, John wanted to punch Mycroft's smart little face. He got closer to Sherlock , hand reaching for Sherlock’s shoulder, but stopped inches from it, hesitant. This was obviously about romantic love. Which narrowed it down to himself – but he was in the room – and…

“Irene Adler.”

But Sherlock shook his head, looking sad and tired and worried.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Look at the coffin. Unmarried, practical about death, alone.”

John stepped forward. He was now shoulder against shoulder with Sherlock, who didn’t seem to mind. He understood now. It was easy. But why? She wasn’t in love with him anymore. She had moved on. He let out, stunned:

“Molly.”

“Molly Hooper.”

On the screen, Eurus smiled at them and said almost happily:

“She’s perfectly safe, for the moment.”

The countdown appeared on the screen, set to three minutes. Mycroft observed from the far-end of the room, silent, feeling helpless.

“The place she is currently in is set to explode in approximately three minutes… unless I hear the release code from her lips. I’m calling her on the phone, Sherlock. Make her say it.”

John wasn’t sure to understand. He looked at his friend, who lowered his head, silent. He asked:

“Say what?”

“Obvious, surely?”

She looked amused. This damned psychopath looked amused. John tried to stay calm, focusing on Sherlock’s face. He did not understand. Or rather, he didn’t want to understand. Ultimately, Sherlock turned to look at the coffin lid.

I love you.

John shook his head. This was unbelievable. Sherlock would not… Well, of course he would. To save Molly, he would make her say it, even if he did not mean it.

“Oh, one important restriction: you’re not allowed to mention in any way that their life is in danger.”

Sherlock raised his head, alerted.

“Their?”

“Oh did I say their? Well, anyway, you may not – at any point – suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session and her life. Are we clear?”

Before Sherlock could do anything more than nod, the screen switched to four images from camera footage of the interior of the home. And in the kitchen, there was Molly.

And Sherlock and John let out a same scream of horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...  
Leave a comment if you liked it! If there're stilll some spelling mistakes, I'm really sorry! I'm French, and it's possible that I missed a few grammatical errors.


	12. Till Death Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a bumpy ride!

Sherlock was looking at the screen in sheer horror. Rosie was happily smiling at Molly who was feeding her, seemingly singing something while bringing the spoon to her mouth. Rosie. His goddaughter. Tiny Watson. So small, so clever, so… Rosie. John’s daughter. So fragile – _John, I think you have to pull over – PULL OVER – baby head between her legs – oh my God – John hurrying to the back of the car, Mary’s body between his legs, her hand crushing his fingers while she is pushing and screaming and suddenly John exclaiming, laughing of joy – baby screams – Mary sobbing against his chest – we want you to be her godfather –_ he had to protect her. She was his family.

He hoped, he even _prayed_ Molly would answer. She didn’t seem to hear her phone at first, as Rosie was babbling. Sherlock frowned at the screen. She had to answer. Eurus sighed and suggested to try again. John came closer to Sherlock, almost touching him, his fists clenched. A part of Sherlock wanted to touch him, to hold his hand, but he didn’t know if he could. Everything was his fault. It was all about him. John and Rosie were caught in the middle of a family crisis, which turned out to be provoked by a demented psychopath. And they could get killed. He was so focused on John’s face he was startled when Molly’s voice echoed in the room.

“Sherlock. Hi. Is John with you? Can you tell him I got his text and I picked Rosie up, and I went to his flat? I’m giving her food, she doesn’t seem to to be feverish, maybe the nanny got it wrong...”

John was staring at the screen, horror painted on his face. Molly gave his daughter a kiss on the forehead and another spoon of whatever she had made for her. She was a very good godmother. Except that he had never texted her. And now, Rosie and her were in his flat, which was full of explosives. He looked at Sherlock, who was pale and trembling. This couldn’t be happening. Not to his daughter.

“Molly can you do something for me?”

She sighed, looking annoyed.

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m with Rosie, not at the lab.”

Sherlock’s breath was sharp, he felt as if it were burning his throat. John had never sent her any text. Eurus did, probably when she took John’s phone before bringing him in the cell. She knew Molly would drop everything to pick up Rosie if she thought she was sick and John was on a case with him. Because Molly was a good friend.

“It’s not… I need you to tell me something.”

Molly rolled her eyes and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Rosie was cooing. She took her in her arms and kissed her cheek, making the baby giggle. In the room, the light turned red and Moriarty’s face appeared on the screen - tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly.

“Just a phrase.”

“What is it Sherlock? Seriously, don’t you have anyone else to bother with your experiments?”

“Just… please, Molly, _just_ say it.”

Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably – _the gri__t on the lens, the fly in the ointment_ – she had to say it, he needed her to. She was going to die. Worse. _Rosie_ was going to die. John’s knuckles were white as he clenched his fists to prevent himself from talking – screaming? - because he knew that if he did that, they were going to die anyway.

“Say what? You didn’t even tell me, Sherlock. Is something wrong?”

“No- no, it’s… it’s for an experiment. You have to say ‘I love you’.”

She stayed silent for a second.

“What is _wrong _with you?”

Molly seemed shaken up. She secured Rosie on her right arm and sat on the couch. Then, she uttered:

“You don’t… Why would you want me to tell you those words? I’m not one of your damn experiments! Are you making fun of me for loving you when I didn’t know you were a jerk?”

Sherlock grit his teeth.

“No, no, of course not! You’re… You’re my friend, Molly. I just really need you to say that, it’s for a case.”

John was looking at him with despair.

“Sherlock… I don’t want to say that to you! Not now, not when I’m… not after I’m done with this, with you.”

Sherlock lowered his head. He knew she was done. He had been pretty relieved when she stopped eyeing at him with puppy eyes and started to notice there were other men around her, way more fitting and nice to her than he was. Women were not really his area. Lately, she had been staying a lot with them and Greg, and he was predicting a happy announcement soon. The lights turned red again, and Moriarty was smiling at him – tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. The clock was ticking.

“It’s _very_ important. I can’t say why, but please, trust me.”

She sighed, and held Rosie a little bit tighter.

“Well, I don’t see why I would be the only one saying these words to someone who doesn’t deserve them. Say it too.”

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. He tried to stay calm, in control of himself. He looked at John, who was looking intensely at the screen. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t – _you’re sad, when you think he can’t see you_ – of course she could. Molly Hooper. The one nobody would think of. The one he never noticed – he should have, she was not unimportant. She had helped him fake his death – exactly for this reason, because _no one would think of her_. She was his friend. And she knew. She smiled a little, looking at Rosie falling asleep in her arms.

“Say it like you would say it to John Watson.”

And his whole world crumbled to pieces. He stood there in disbelief, silent, shaking, unable to protest. It was too late anyway. He could feel John slowly turning to stare at him. He didn’t want to make eye contact. Didn’t want to see the disgust in his eye. The hatred. John Watson, the man he had pushed away, lied to, whom he had crushed by making him believe he was dead, whose life he had crushed again by coming back, then he broke his vow by not being able to save his wife, and now, he could get his daughter killed by not telling him he loved him. Or rather, by not telling Molly he loved her. He took a breath.

“I – I...”

John was not even looking at the screen. Sherlock’s whole body was quaking now. He was paler than ever. John didn’t even know what to do. What to say. Was it true? Sherlock turned to look at him, a glimpse of despair visible in his eyes before he promptly squeezed them shut.

“Thirty seconds left.”

Eurus sounded amused. How could she, John thought. How could she play with Sherlock like that. Sherlock opened his eyes again and anchored them in his tender blue. John straightened up, his arms along his body, his fists clenched. Molly was waiting.

“I love you.”

It was so good, John thought, closing his eyes so Sherlock couldn’t see the emotion inside them. So good and so awful. So good to hear those words coming from Sherlock’s mouth. So awful because he didn’t want to hear them in that situation. He felt Sherlock move towards him, a shaking hand moved towards his face, stopped just before touching it, but he could _feel_ it, feel the warmth around it.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s voice was softer, almost broken. Molly shook her head on the screen. The clock was ticking loudly in the background, and they had completely forgotten Mycroft.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock.”

Molly smiled sadly. He knew she was not apologizing for making him say it, she felt sorry for him because she knew how much it hurt to love someone who would not even look at you. He spat out:

“Now say it.”

She stroke Rosie’s hair gently.

“I love you.”

The countdown stopped, but in the room, everything seemed to be frozen. John opened his eyes. Sherlock was still looking at him. And suddenly, he turned his head to the camera and quietly yet strongly said:

“Eurus I won. I won.”

She didn’t answer at first, just looking at him, and John knew something was wrong.

“Come on, play fair. The girl on the plane. I need to talk to her.”

Eurus gave him a pitied look. Sherlock was almost frantic now, and John didn’t dare to try to calm him down. Not with what he had just said. Was it true? Did Sherlock love him? Or was it just another lie to make Molly say it? Was Sherlock’s emotion the fear of telling him he loved him, or the shame of declaring feelings he didn’t actually have for his best friend?

“Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There was no explosives in Doctor Watson’s little house. Why would I do that? It’s way more interesting to see you lose everything you had.”

Sherlock was still. She was right. He had just lost everything. The shaking came back, and he dropped the pistol on the floor.

“You didn’t win. You lost. Look what you did to Doctor Watson. Look what you did to yourself.”

He moved to the coffin in mortuary silence. Why. Why hadn’t he understood? Why had he agreed to say it? Why hadn’t he seen through her real intentions? What would John think of him now? Would he lose him?

“All these complicated little emotions. I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you _every _time.”

Mycroft looked as if he was going to say something, but John grabbed his arm and shook his head. The older Holmes stared at him with such sadness in his eyes that John felt tears coming up. He blinked to make them go away. Mycroft murmured:

“I am truly, really, sorry.”

John shook his head again. Mycroft could not have predicted that. Eurus sat back in her chair and said firmly:

“Now, pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn’t going to be so easy.”

Sherlock turned to look at the screen while the door was sliding open.

“Easy. You think, that was _easy_.”

Eurus smiled at him.

“Of course it was Sherlock. You just let yourself get blinded by your emotions. You didn’t ask yourself the good questions. In your own time.”

Then she left. Sherlock picked up the lid, and walked towards the coffin. Mycroft headed for the open door, but John stayed where he was, looking at Sherlock. The detective put the lid into place on top of the coffin, then rested his hands on the top, caressing the words. _I love you_. He lowered his head and let out a sob of pain. John reached out to grab Sherlock’s arm, shoulder, maybe his whole body, but his friend’s face twisted with rage and grief and frustration.

“No. No, no, NO!”

He pulled back his arms and smashed the coffin with a scream of pure rage. John froze, unable to know what to do. Sherlock slammed the coffin with his fists again and again, crying out over and over again, disintegrating it until there were just pieces left, tears of anguish running down his cheeks. Mycroft just stood behind the open door, watching his little brother crush to pieces the coffin which represented everything he felt, everything he had ever felt. And Sherlock only sensed the water pouring onto him through the vent as the storm finally reached the island, thunder resonating in his mind and heart, feeling more lost, more lonely, more despaired than he had ever felt, screaming his anger out loud, and his fear, and – two arms suddenly wrapped him in a tight embrace. He struggled, crying, sobbing, screaming, but the arms didn’t let go, they just held him stronger, and now a mouth was murmuring in his ear words of comfort, and friendship, and love, and he was not alone, his nose dug in a soft fabric that he knew by heart, because it was his own. John. Who was holding him against his strong body on the floor, against the wall, waiting for him to calm down.

“It’s okay Sherlock, you’re okay, we’re both okay, you’re not alone. I’m here. I will always be here.”

_I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you liked this... and that you don't hate me too much right now?  
I have to admit that my Sherlock is a bit sensitive (maybe too much?) but to me, he evolved a lot during S3 et S4, and right now he is just overwhelmed: a lot of things have happened in a very short time (Mary's death, John beating him up, hating him, forgiving him, almost dying, discovering he had a sister, remembering, meeting her, and now she is trying to make him suffer...), and he is having a hard time processing all of it.  
See you soon!


	13. I Will Not Let You Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is faced with a terrible choice.

Sherlock calmed down slowly, immersed in John’s smell and warmth. Finally, he got out of the embrace, immediately missing it but very aware of the fact that his sister wasn’t done with them. John stood up next to him, and they exchanged a long glance. He knew John had questions. But more importantly, John hadn’t hit him. He hadn’t yelled at him. Instead, he hugged him tight while he was having a panic attack. And this meant a lot. John turned around, and picked up the gun he had let down on the floor. Then, he turned back to him and said firmly:

“We have to keep it together. This will end. We will figure it out. And then, we are going to have a talk.”

Sherlock nodded and took the gun.

“Soldiers?”

John smiled sadly.

“Soldiers.”

They turned to the corridor which led to another room and met Mycroft’s worried look. Sherlock ignored it completely while he walked past him, heading to the next challenge. He just had a massive breakdown after admitting he was in love with his best friend. He had made a fool of himself in front of his big brother, and this was something he was not proud of. At least, John hadn’t rejected him. He wanted to talk. What did that mean? Did he love him too? Maybe, after all, he had been wrong and all was not lost – _neither of us was the first –_ not now Mary. But John was right. It was not the time to think about that. They had to get out of here first.

The next room was completely empty. There was a single huge screen on the wall, and nothing more. Sherlock looked at the screen and spat:

“Hey sis, don’t mean to complain, but this one is empty. What happened? Did you run out of ideas?”

As soon as the words got out of his mouth he regretted them. It was obvious. He looked down at the gun he was holding.

“Oh… So that’s what you’re going to ask me next, isn’t it?”

She smiled.

“Yes it is. Just two of you go on from here; your choice. It’s make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most – John or Mycroft?”

Sherlock didn’t know what unsettled him the most: what she was saying, or the huge bright smile she had while saying it. He felt as if he was going to throw up. John was looking at him silently, and he couldn’t help but remember what had happened just a few minutes ago – _strong arms around him – tender voice softening him_. He shook himself out of the thought. Not. Now. Eurus was still talking.

“It’s an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other. You have to choose family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson?”  
Sherlock turned to face John, unable to look at his brother. He couldn’t think. What was he going to do? His mind raced like it always did, but this time, it was exploding in so many directions that Sherlock could not follow it. The lights turned red.

“Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.”

John could see how lost Sherlock was, but he didn’t know what to do to help him. Yes, Mycroft was an insufferable ass who had hurt him more times than he could count, but did he deserve to die? He literally was the most important person in the country after the Queen. England couldn’t afford losing him. But he had a daughter. And he had – at least, he _hoped_ he had – Sherlock. He could not leave them alone. Sherlock’s blue eyes were burning his skin. _I love you_.

“Eurus, enough!”

Mycroft’s voice startled them, and they both looked at him at the same time.

“Not yet, I think.”

She smiled widely once again, and Sherlock noticed that his brother was even more disturbed than he was every time she did that.

“But nearly. Remember, there’s a plane in the sky, and it’s not going to land.”

Once again, John was troubled by her perpetual reminder of the plane in the sky. There was something about this – the little girl who was all alone in the sky, everyone around her asleep and Sherlock being the only one able to reach her – which mas profoundly unsettling. It sounded way too much like what he thought he understood of the story Mycroft told them about Eurus, if he still remembered his psychology classes from college. Eurus must have felt so alone when she was a child, unable to connect to those around her. But how could he be sure of this? For now, he had to keep his thoughts to himself. Sherlock was probably thinking about this too.

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off John. John. John. John. His reason was clear: he had to kill him. Killing Mycroft would be a pure disaster. It would have national and even worldwide repercussions, and it was something he could not afford to do. Mycroft was way too important. And he was his brother. His blood. The person who, even if imperfectly, had always tried to protect him. Mycroft loved him in his own way. But he was not able to kill John Watson.

“Well?”

Mycroft voice was suddenly so full of himself that Sherlock frowned, suspicious.

“Well, what?”

“We’re not actually going to discuss this, are we?”

Weren’t they? Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. His brother was not implying what he thought he was implying? Of course they had to discuss it. He had to think, for God’s damned sake!

“I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. You’re a fine man in many respects.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a quick glance.

“Make your goodbyes and shoot him.”

Sherlock couldn’t move nor talk and even less _think_.

“_Shoot_ him!”

Sherlock felt as if his body was torn in multiple parts by a ferocious ice beast, whose teeth were piercing his skin, making him feel colder than he had ever been in his life. But his heart was beating fast, and his breath was also going crazy. He could picture himself turn to John, point the gun at his head, and shoot. He could distinctly see the skull exploding, the blood and brain matter coming out of it and soaking his face, just like Moriarty’s. He started shaking, unable to get out of his head the image of the blue _dead_ eyes staring at him. But Mycroft was not finished.

“Shoot Doctor Watson. There’s no question who has to continue from here. It’s us; you and me. Whatever lies ahead requires brainpower, Sherlock, not sentiment. Don’t prolong his agony; shoot him.”

Sherlock stared at his brother. This was not possible. Mycroft was not like that. It was not him talking. John frowned and said:

“What if I don’t want to die?”

Mycroft laughed, and Sherlock looked at him closely. Something wasn’t right.

“Today, we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Doctor Watson, that privilege is now yours.”

John shook his head. He knew Mycroft was right. He knew it. But… he didn’t want to die. He wasn’t going to leave Rosie. She was not going to be an orphan. He stood in front of him, and hissed:

“Why don’t _you_ die like a soldier? Do the right thing for once in your life?”

“He _is_ doing the right thing.”

Sherlock’s voice was calm, almost tender, and John’s heart seemed to miss a beat at his words. So, Sherlock thought that he had to die too? Then, John was right. What he thought he understood in the other room was just that: a thought. John took a staggering step backwards, and said:

“Then shoot me.”

The shock on Sherlock’s face was real, and his hand suddenly reached for John. He didn’t know which part of John he wanted to grip, but he needed to feel his body again, his skin. His hand fell on John’s shoulder, and he was was shaking while squeezing it. His head was desperately going from one side to another, refusing to accept what the doctor had just said. But Mycroft wasn’t done with him.

“Make it swift. No need to prolong his agony. Get it over with, and we can get to work.”

John stiffened himself, Sherlock’s hand still trembling on his shoulder. It had struck him, a few seconds earlier. Mycroft’s eyes on them, and his voice, so rough, so full of disdain. Sherlock turned his head slowly toward his brother, almost not believing what Mycroft was doing. What an idiot.

“God! I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always _were_ the slow one, the idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now, for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this stupid little man out of all our misery.”

Mycroft’s grin was painful to watch, and Sherlock got closer to John, trying to find the courage to stop his brother. He looked at the man he loved, still right next to him. John didn’t understand, did he? He looked so angry right now. Mycroft almost screamed:

“_Shoot_ him.”

Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop it.”

John felt more and more angry and in pain by the second. He didn’t know if he wanted to kill Mycroft or for Sherlock to kill him.

“Look at him. What is he?”

What was he, indeed? Sherlock showed him that he cared. Or at least, he thought. But was it real? He could never be half the man Sherlock was. Only Mycroft – and Eurus – could compare to the intelligence of the detective. Mycroft spat:

“Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You’ll find another.”

John staggered – _I don’t have friends_ – _placid, straight-forward, barely used_ – _you’re an idiot_ – it was not as if Sherlock never told him this kind of things, but he hoped that he liked him nonetheless – _I love you_. Hearing this from Mycroft was like a punch in his stomach. Sherlock was still looking at him, and finally spoke, his voice low and tired:

“Please, for God’s sake, just stop it.”

Mycroft straightened up.

“Why? Do you know what you have to do, now?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Because, you’re just hurting John, and you’re a very bad actor.”

He turned to John, who was almost shaking.

“Ignore everything he just said. He’s being kind. He’s trying to make it easy for me to kill him.”

John stared at Mycroft in disbelief. Was it really what that was? Was Mycroft being awful on purpose for once? He noticed the sad look on Mycroft’s face. Sherlock’s voice lowered again, now sounding almost like a whisper.

“Which is why this is going to be so much harder.”

He pointed the gun towards Mycroft, who smiled a little. This was harder than he expected. Harder than everything – expect the thought of pointing a gun towards John. His brother was smiling sadly, but tried to look strong, as if he weren’t terrified. John shook his head, and tried to push his hand away.

“Sherlock. Don’t.”

“It’s not your decision, Doctor Watson.”

John grit his teeth in frustration and anger. It was, in fact, not his decision. But still. He couldn’t allow a man to sacrifice himself for his well-being, and certainly not a man as important for the nation as Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft continued:

“Not in the face, though, please. I’ve promised my brain to the Royal Society.”

John and Sherlock almost smiled at the joke attempt. In the corner of his eye, John noticed that Eurus seemed uncomfortable all of a sudden. He thought to himself that she would maybe have preferred that Sherlock chose his brother instead of a complete stranger.

“Where would you suggest?”

There was an uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice that John hated. Sherlock was always so strong, emotionless. Right now, he looked like he was going to crumple to the ground. John couldn’t let this happen.

“Well... I suppose there is a heart _somewhere_ inside me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target but…”

John couldn’t stand this anymore. He suddenly snapped, hit the wall with his fist and yelled in anger:

“I won’t allow this!”

Sherlock shivered, surprised by the sudden outburst. John was trembling with rage. He looked at his scratched knuckles, then continued, obviously wanting to destroy something, but unable to do so since the room was empty:

“She is toying with us.”

Mycroft shrugged.

“This is all my fault. I deserve this. I brought her here. I allowed her to have five minutes with Jim Moriarty, five years ago. Apparently, it’s all she needed to arrange… all of that.”

He gestured around, as to point out the entire situation. John protested:

“It doesn’t matter what you did. You are Sherlock’s brother, and a very important person for the Nation, and who am I? No one. I’m just a doctor. You cannot die.”

Mycroft was going to answer, but Sherlock was faster:

“I won’t kill you, John. I can’t. And he knows it, which is why he tried to make it easier.”

John didn’t know if he felt more happy and relieved to hear those words from Sherlock’s mouth, or more angry and scared in front of what Sherlock would have to do. He stepped in between the two brothers, while Eurus, looking concerned on the screen, said:

“Jim Moriarty thought you’d make this choice. He was _so_ excited.”

Once again, the light turned red. John thought he was going to hate this color for the rest of his life.

“And here we are, at the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes. This is where I get off.”

Sherlock’s face changed, and John _knew_ that he had a plan, just as he always had known when he’d had a plan during their years of friendship. He still hadn’t moved from between the gun and Mycroft, and when Sherlock got closer to him, he expected him to push him away. But Sherlock just stopped at an uncomfortably close distance from him, their chests almost touching. John could feel his breath on his face – _peppermint and tobacco and tea and home_ – and he shivered when Sherlock talked, his voice low and rough.

“Five minutes. It took her just _five minutes_ to do all of this to us.”

John held his breath. Sherlock slowly raised his hand, until it touched the side of John’s face, and murmured:

“Well, not on my watch. I won’t let that happen.”

John stared at him, trying not to melt at the contact of Sherlock’s skin against his.

“What are you doing?”

Eurus was clearly worried now, as she leaned closer, trying to figure out what his brother was planning to do.

“A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered.”

He was kidding, wasn’t he? John opened his mouth to stop him, Mycroft now looking terrified behind him, but Sherlock was faster.

“I’m remembering the governor.”

John tried to grab the gun, but Sherlock’s gaze was enough for him to stay in place. The detective caressed his cheek and murmured:

“I will never fail you again, John Watson.”

Holding the pistol in both hands, he lifted the muzzle and pressed the end under his chin. John was frozen in terror. Sherlock started counting, calm and composed.

“Ten…”

Eurus protested.

“No, no, Sherlock.”

“Nine …”

John couldn’t see Mycroft’s face, still in front of him. Sherlock stepped back, and he forced himself to not move. He had to trust him.

“Eight…”

“You can’t!”

“Seven…”

Eurus looked desperate now.

“You don’t know about Redbeard yet.”

Sherlock’s eyes were anchored in John’s. Blue against blue.

“Six…”

“Sherlock!”

“Five…”

“Sherlock, stop that at once!”

John heard the dart before it hit the back of Sherlock neck.

“Four…”

Before he could reach the detective, he felt another dart in his own neck, and stumbled towards Sherlock.

“Three…”

Sherlock started staggering, his whole body tilted towards John, who reached to him, even if he felt like he was falling.

“Two…”

And everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is near... I hope you're ejoying this as much as I am! Comments make me happy, so try to tell me what you thought about this !


	14. The Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry it's taking such a long time between chapters, but I'm back at uni and quite busy. But the end is near!

When John woke up, the first thing he noticed was the sky. Moon. Stars. It was nighttime. He must have slept a few hours. Then, he felt the water all around him. His first instinct was to look around him and call:

“Sherlock!”

But no one answered. He decided to not move for a moment, even if he could feel the cold water soaking his clothes. His mind was racing, trying to figure out where he was, and why he was alone. Sherlock’s jacket was not enough to warm him up, as his skin was getting colder rapidly. He had to get out of here. As he laid here, without moving, a voice finally got to him through an earplug he had barely noticed.

“Are you there yet?”

Relief flooded his veins as he recognized Sherlock’s voice. He jerked fully awake, and tried to stand up.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“John!”

Sherlock sounded relieved. For an instant, he hesitated to tell him how much his voice felt good, warm, home. But he didn’t have the time for that, so he settled on a simple:

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

John looked around, but he still had no idea. Right now, he was just happy to hear Sherlock’s voice, and he wanted to hold him. He huddled in the soaked jacket, trying to find comfort in something which belonged to Sherlock, even if it now smelled like old water and dirt.

“I don’t know. I’ve just woken up. Where are you?”

“I’m in another cell. I just spoke to the girl on the plane again. We’ve been out for hours.”

John frowned. The girl. The plane. Something wasn’t right. He had to tell Sherlock. But how to be sure? He asked doubtfully:

“What, she’s still up there?”

“Yes. The plane will keep flying until it runs out of fuel.”

John bit his lower lip.

“Sherlock, I have to -”

“Is Mycroft with you?”

John sighed. This was not the right time. He looked around him, but there was no sign of Mycroft. He tried to call him anyway, maybe he was close.

“I have no idea. I can hardly see anything. Mycroft? Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s heart sunk when he didn’t hear any answer from his brother. He might’ve wanted to punch him in the face, hard, but he certainly didn’t want him to die. He asked John the question he had tried to avoid:

“Are _you_ okay?”

John’s voice was warm in his ear when he answered:

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wanted to answer _I cannot not worry about, John_ but he just said:

“All right. Well, just keep exploring. Tell me anything you can about where you are.”

“The walls are rough. They’re rock, I guess.”

Rock. Not concrete. He was not in a cell then. Sherlock was looking at pictures on the wall. Pictures of him, torn, sliced. He asked:

“What are you standing on?”

“Uh, stone, I think. But listen: there’s about two feet of water.”

Sherlock’s breath trembled. Water. Deep water. _Drowned Redbeard_. She was doing it again. She was killing his best friend. Except that, this time, it was not a simple dog. It was the love of his life. John’s voice cut his thoughts.

“Chains. Yeah, my feet are chained up. I can feel something.”

He tried to grab what he was walking on, hoping that it wasn’t what he thought… But it was. He looked at the small bones, his heart aching. He uttered:

“Bones, Sherlock. There are bones in here.”

“What kind of bones?”

Sherlock looked at the table in the center of the room. Under it, there was a bowl, clearly a dog’s bowl. He grabbed it. John answered, seeming unsure, which was unusual.

“I dunno. Small bones.”

John felt so sorry. For Sherlock, for poor Redbeard. He frowned, and took a closer look at the bones. It was so dark, that he couldn’t tell if it was indeed dog’s bones. He could hear Sherlock move at the other end of the line, and his breath accelerating. John sighed.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John still held the tiny bones in his hand, and tried to look at them closer, unable to tell what was bothering him. He had never really studied dog bones, after all. He was a doctor. But, there was the issue. He felt like he recognized the shape of those bones. It looked like a tiny ulna, one who would have belonged to a child between five and seven years old. A terrible doubt flooded his mind. What if… He tried to warn Sherlock:

“Sherlock? I’m not sure it’s dog bones… It looks like… Sherlock?”

John couldn’t reach him again. He tried to look for more bones, grabbing branches, and other smaller bones, but there was a lot of dirt, and he stopped searching. He ended up looking for a way out, but it didn’t seem like there was any. He was in a pit full of water.

Not a pit.

A well.


	15. Musgrave Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks he is trapped in a cell.  
In fact, it's partially true.  
He is not in a cell.  
But he is trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all readers who left kudos, it's good to know you like what I do.

“Who’s Redbeard?”

Sherlock jolted, sinking his face into one hand. He couldn’t do this. He just wanted to hear John’s voice, to be comforted by his soft tone, to see his tender blue eyes and hear “brilliant” every time he arrived at a conclusion. He answered anyway, trying to sound calm, while taking in his hand a lantern which was on the floor.

“Oh, hello. Are you at the front of the plane now?”

“Yeah. I still can’t wake the driver up.”

She had to be terrified, Sherlock thought. She had to. He couldn’t think straight. Mycroft was gone. What did Eurus do to him? And John was somewhere, all alone, in the dark. At the exact place where Redbeard drowned. And a part of him refused to acknowledge what it meant. He forced himself to keep focusing on the girl.

“That’s all right. What can you see now?”

“I can see a river. And there’s-there’s-there’s a big wheel.”

River. Big wheel. The Tames. She was going to crash on London. Coincidence? Part of him started to question what she was saying, but he still said:

“All right. Well, you and I are going to have to drive this plane together. Just you and me.”

“We are?”

She sounded nervous. He needed to reassure her, and smiled to sound more confident.

“Yeah, there’s nothing to it. We just need to get in touch with some people on the ground. Now, um, can you see anything that looks like a radio?”

“No.”

“That’s all right. Well, we... keep looking. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Just as he said that, she screamed, and he jumped, startled.

“What’s wrong?”

“The whole plane’s shaking.”

Sherlock tried to organize his thoughts. It was too much information.

“It’s just turbulence. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“My ears hurt.”

He frowned. This was bad. Very bad. They didn’t have much time left.

“Does the river look like it’s getting closer?”

He was trying to stay as calm as he possibly could right now, but it was getting harder and harder.

“A-a little bit.”

“All right, then. That means you’re nearly home.”

“Sherlock? I’m in a well. That’s where I am; I’m in the bottom of a well.”

It was John again. Sherlock’s thoughts tried desperately to organize around the information, but it was too much. He started breathing rapidly.

“Sherlock? I have to tell you something.”

John was worried now. He could hear Sherlock’s distressed breath, and he didn’t like that one bit. He checked the rocks around him one more time, trying to figure out if there was a puzzle to solve to get out. Not finding anything, he said:

“Sherlock?”

“I – I can’t do it.”

Sherlock was now frozen at the center of the room, his panicked breath resonating in his ears. This was too much. Too much information. He needed John. He needed his calm, his questions, his ideas, his comforting blue eyes… He was shaking again, he felt like he had been shaking all day, just like when he was nine and had had a panic attack at school, because everything was _too much_.

“Of course you can, Sherlock. Of course you can.”

John’s voice was calm and composed. He almost sounded as if he weren’t chained at bottom of a well with Sherlock’s dog that Eurus had killed when she was five.

“I trust you, Sherlock Holmes. Just focus. You can do it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing on John’s voice. He took a deep breath.

“Why would there be a well in Sherrinford?”

He raised the lantern and looked more closely at the array of photographs on the wall in front of him. He frowned, noticing something strange.

“Why is there a draught?”

Sherlock focused on two panels of the same wall. They had a small gap between them. A photo of him as a teenager, stuck across the gap, was fluttering slightly. He lowered his gaze to the bottom of the wall. There was also a small gap between the wall and the floor. This was out of place. He said thoughtfully, hoping that John would hear him:

“Walls don’t contract after you’ve painted them.”

He got closer, put the lantern on the floor to touch the wall. Yes, he was right.

“Not real ones.”

Sherlock raised both hands and slammed them hard against the wall. It fell outwards and dropped to the ground outside, with a loud noise. In front of him was a very familiar burnt-out house. He stared at it wide-eyed.

“I’m home. Musgrave Hall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like the previous chapter, this is short, but I hope you'll like it. Please, leave a review if you did, it makes me really happy!


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